


yellow

by cenli



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aged-Up Characters, Alternate Universe - Human, Dave-centric, Depression, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, Hope, M/M, Smoking, everyone loves dave and wants him to be happy, hints at disordered eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 02:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7916500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cenli/pseuds/cenli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bus home is a series of errant elbows to his sides and snorting at the fifteen or so <i>“i’m bored”</i> texts John has sent him, inter-spaced with dog pictures from Jade, and one <i>“What colour is today?”</i> from Rose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	yellow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Azusina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azusina/gifts).



> this is .. so self-indulg en t

He slips on a pair of stained black sneakers without any socks and closes the door softly behind him. There’s another hour, maybe a little more, before John’s internal clock blares out some awful movie soundtrack, and by then Dave will be halfway across the city, smiling stiffly at early morning commuters with glazed over eyes.

A rush, then quiet around nine, and he ducks out to the alley and smokes a crumpled cigarette next to the dumpsters. There’s a good morning text to the tune of _“you didn’t leave me any coffee dick munch.”_ and he smiles and taps out _“have a good day at work sweetheart.”_

 

John cleans petri dishes at a lab downtown, and Dave serves coffee and singed egg mcmuffins to dead-eyed businesspeople with identical constantly-beeping bluetooths.

They both swear it’s a stepping stone to greater things.

But John’s keyboard collects unwashed mugs in a living room corner and Dave hocked his turntables for rent money months ago.

Greater things are distant dreams in faded reindeer wrapping paper.

 

The day drags, a slurry of ice-cream machine breakdowns and moments of reprieve leaning against cold steel shelving in the freezer. Deep, fogged breaths amongst bags of frozen chicken. 

 

Four o’clock rolls around and Dave two-finger salutes his least-favourite manager on his way out the door. It’s dusk already, late November biting the exposed skin of his cheeks and weaseling into the ornate pattern of the bright blue sweater Rose knit him for his twenty-second birthday.

The bus home is a series of errant elbows to his sides and snorting at the fifteen or so _“i'm bored.”_ texts John has sent him, inter-spaced with dog pictures from Jade, and one _“What colour is today?”_ from Rose.

He leaves that one for now. Today has been beige at best, but there are only so many zoomed in pictures of his work khakis he can send her before she starts suggesting he get a better job, call his brother, pick up a hobby, _literally anything, David, your Netflix queue can wait._

Jokes on you, Rose, the bank account with the Netflix subscription ran dry. The Sahara in summer in a goddamn drought.

 

God, he’s so tired.

 

He smokes another cigarette on the six block walk from the bus stop and grinds out the ashes against grey concrete sidewalk next to a grey concrete building.

Too many photos of black and white empty park benches lately. Too many sepia-toned swing sets. 

 

Their apartment is on the fifth floor and he walks past the elevator that’s been ‘waiting for repairs’ since before they moved in. His long legs protest as he takes the stairs two at a time, nodding a greeting to the lady from the fourth who once complimented John’s piano playing.

The door jiggles open and John’s snorting laughter echoes into the hall. There’s soft mumbling in response and more laughter and a pair of scuffed orange Converse sitting neatly by the door. Dave toes off his shoes and takes a breath. He forgot John has half-days every second Friday.

The apartment is lit up, cheap buzzing fluorescents that make him glad for his aviators. He pauses in the doorway to their tiny kitchen, leaning against the moulding and smoothing his expression.

“Dave!” John cries, blue eyes lighting up behind his glasses from where he’s perched on a counter-top, legs swinging. “You’re home early!”

“Yeah. Ran all the way here just to see my favourite…people.”

Dirk is elbow-deep in their kitchen sink, bright green rubber gloves (which he must have brought from home because Dave _knows_  he and John agreed on their uselessness) slowly filling with suds.

“Sup,” he says, and Dirk turns to jerk his chin at him. His shades are hanging from the collar of his t-shirt. There’s a grease smudge above one of his expressive eyebrows and Dave envies him a little.

Maybe his brother isn’t rich and famous, but he spends his days surrounded by the quiet hum of machinery, slim fingers fiddling with circuit boards rather than serving up Happy Meals. He’s calmed down, found a place he fits. He likes his job. Likes his life.

“What’re you doin’ here, bro?”

Dirk raises his grease smudge. “Can’t a guy just drop by to see his favourite brother?”

Dave tugs his sleeves down, crosses his arms over his chest. “You only got one brother, and you live an hour away. Rose called you, huh.”

Soap bubbles pop as Dirk exhales softly, sponge hanging limp in one hand.

“She’s a little worried. She and Jade. Jake, too, in his own way. He wanted to come tonight but a tour ran late.”

“Has he seen the new Indiana Jones yet?” John breaks in, a little too excited, and Dave smothers a grateful look.

“Five times, four of which he made me sit through. There are only so many trapdoors leading to spiked pits a man can take. Pass me that saucepan.”

The kitchen fills again with John’s convincing enthusiasm and Dirk’s soft, sarcastic ministrations and the running of the tap and Dave ducks away to the bedroom down the hall.

 

The living room is spotless, and John’s keyboard is pulled out from the wall. Something stirs in Dave’s chest.

The bathroom is shining white ceramic, all the dead bulbs in the hallway have been changed, but the bedroom is dark and cluttered and Dave says a quick _thank you_ to whatever deity is listening that John was home to stave off Dirk’s special lemon-scented brand of caring from reaching this far.

He lies face down on rumpled sheets and hugs John’s pillow and ignores the way metal digs into his temple.

 

He’s dozing when the door nudges open and the bed dips and John pokes him in the ribs.

“Ge’ off,” Dave mumbles into the duvet, swatting lazily at the offending hand and missing completely, making John snort.

“It’s almost eight. You need to eat something.”

Dave rolls over and blinks at him blearily, a question in his furrowed brow. He’d lost two hours to comfort in John’s aftershave scent and the clinking of cutlery against the kitchen sink.

“Dirk’s still here, but his phone started playing the Tomb Raider select-screen music and he lit up like a love-struck, Halloween-themed Christmas tree.”

“Shoulda just said jack-o’-lantern, John.”

“I guess your shitty metaphors are rubbing off on me.”

“That’s not the only thing that could be rubbing—”

“Fuck off, Dave.”

Dave grins and John reaches to pluck the sunglasses delicately off his face.

“Either way, I think Jake wants to meet for dinner, so it’s social interaction or staying here and eating cereal alone.”

Dave’s ninety-seven percent sure their milk expired last week, but it doesn’t matter. John knows Dave will end up shrugging into one of his ancient hoodies and following John to whatever cheap eatery they end up agreeing on, complaining about the cold the entire way.

John knows Dave would follow him anywhere.

“As tempting as Tony the Tiger is…”

John’s teeth flash in the slim strip of hallway light spilling through the crack in the door as he gets to his feet.

“I’ll go check where we’re going. Get ready, and put on some damn socks, Strider.”

 

They end up at McDonald’s and Dave steals John’s fries and complains of war flashbacks. John ignores him in favour of laughing at Jake simultaneously trying to reenact some action scene while eating a Big Mac, all with one hand tightly laced with Dirk’s.

He sends his burger flying while describing a sword fight and apologizes profusely to the angry-looking biker with special sauce dripping from his mustache while Dirk buys him another one.

 

There’s a lull when Jake has a mouthful, and John is sucking desperately at his straw to get the last of his vanilla milkshake out, when Dirk tucks his phone into a pocket and turns to Dave.

“I’ve been getting some extra hours at work. Saved up a little.”

“Congrats?”

“I mean.” Dirk’s voice is almost lost in the cacophony of drunk college students demanding apple pies. “I can help you pay for school.”

Someone drops their cup near the soda machines and screams out laughter. A long-suffering, underpaid staff member sighs and goes to find a mop.

“If you still want to go back.” That hesitance is uncharacteristic of Dirk, or used to be, and Dave feels another curl of jealousy that his brother has grown out of his cocky, jaded past.

He can’t meet Dirk’s eyes.

John finds his hand under the table and squeezes once, fingers greasy and slick with condensation from his drink.

“Yeah. Thanks, bro.”

 

Jake ducks under the divider and jumps into the ball pit in the playplace with a whoop, and Dirk mumbles something about irony and follows him. John finds Dave standing underneath a shallow overhang outside, smoking and watching cars shush past on the rain-slicked street.

“How many is that today?”

He wants to say three, because that’s what he promised. A step forward on the road to healthier coping habits, as his friend-forward-slash-therapist had said.

But he’s been standing out here for half an hour, and he doesn’t lie to John.

“Six.”

John hums, something by Vivaldi maybe, and shoves his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

“Do you wanna go back?” he asks, after thirteen cars have gone past and Dave has lit up again.

A breeze carries his ash toward the dead heating lamp above them.

“Sometimes.”

“No harm in trying again! Put that fancy camera to good use.”

 

In the light filtering through the dingy restaurant windows, with raindrops running down his glasses and teeth peeking out from his easy smile, John would make a beautiful photograph.

Dave blows out smoke and steps forward to kiss the bow of John’s lips.

 

There’s a scuffle from the door as Jake gets escorted out, followed by a ruffled-looking Dirk.

“Seriously? Did you have to fuck in the playplace?”

“The balls covered up anything lewd.”

John giggles and Dirk adjusts his glasses and Jake spreads his arms to the sky and spins in the middle of a Seattle downpour.

 

Dave snaps a blurry photo of the golden arches and sends it to Rose.

 

_“Yellow is a happy colour. Are you feeling well, David?”_

_“Right as rain.”_

**Author's Note:**

> i couldn't find that post about how the friend texts the other friend 'what colour is today' but it's such a nice idea idk man
> 
> for the blue to my red


End file.
